


Pity Party For One

by Brenda



Category: National Football League RPF
Genre: Best Friends, M/M, NFL Trades Suck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 20:03:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3622473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brenda/pseuds/Brenda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris isn't sulking because Sam got traded to the Eagles.  He's not.  Just because he's wallowing on his sofa with pizza and country music and his dog doesn't mean he's sulking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pity Party For One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zortified (james)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/james/gifts).



> Written for James, because I promised I'd write a fic about Chris' honest-to-God devastated reaction on Twitter to the news that Sam (his real life BFF) had been traded from the St. Louis Rams to the Eagles for Nick Foles. I can't blame him, really. I'd rather have Sam than Nick, too. ;)

Chris isn't exactly sulking, because he's a grown-ass man and grown-ass men, on the whole, don't sulk. Not even when they're coming off yet another disappointing season and the guy they're maybe sort kinda in love with gets traded to another damn team and they find out about it on Twitter of all the fucking places. So he's definitely not sulking and hasn't refused to answer any well-meaning texts from his dad or his brothers and hasn't holed himself up on his sofa in his sweats with some cold pizza and a bottle of Jim Beam and some Waylon blasting from the speakers and his bulldog a warm, comforting, drooling weight beside him.

And he's definitely not feeling too sorry for himself to answer the front door when the bell rings and he can't be bothered to actually open his eyes when he hears the scrape of a key in the lock a minute later, because it's probably his mom with some soup or something, like soup can replace Sam's spot next to him in the locker room or on the plane or in his bed and maybe he _is_ sulking, grown-ass man or not.

Then the cushion next to him dips as a warm, familiar weight settles alongside him and he half-turns into the arm that wraps comfortingly around him and he sighs, long and drawn-out, because as much as he knows on an intellectual level that life isn't fair and football sure as hell isn't fair, there's a difference between knowing and _knowing_ and right now, life sucks.

Soft lips brush a light kiss to his hair. "You're sulking," Sam says, because stating the obvious is sort of his thing.

Chris just nuzzles Sam's neck and breathes in his scent. "I'm a grown-ass man," he mumbles.

"Yeah, a grown-ass man who's sulking."

Chris humphs, but doesn't reply. He wonders if Sam's brought more pizza or at least more bourbon. On his other side, Chubbs lets out a snort-yawn that Chris is just going to take as a doggie agreement on the matter.

"I don't know why you're so mopey, I'm the one that got traded to Philly," Sam says, with a patient sort of Earth logic that has no place right now at Chris' pity party.

He sighs again, his lips grazing the bristled skin of Sam's throat. "It's always worse for those left behind."

"You still have JL and Quinn. And I'm sure Nick'll do great here. You won't even miss me."

At that, Chris lifts his head. Meets Sam's soulful brown eyes and patient smile and mop of curly brown hair with a frown. "You're not very good at this whole cheering me up thing."

Sam smiles, wide and deep-grooved and stupidly beautiful in the way that All Things Sam are stupidly beautiful to Chris. "Alright, let's try it this way. Are you breaking up with me?"

"What?! No, of course not."

"Okay, so you're not breaking up with me and I'm not breaking up with you. You still love me, right?"

"You're a dumbass," Chris replies, with another frown. "And that's a dumb question."

Sam grins again. "I still love you, too. Which means everything else is negotiable."

"I guess," Chris sighs, because today he's apparently a diva in addition to a sulker. "You swear you're not going to leave me for DeMarco Murray?"

Sam laughs and leans in for a kiss that's over far too quick. "How much JB have you had to drink, man?"

"Um, all of it?" Chris guesses. He's been on the sofa a long time.

Sam's fingers brush over his arm, callus-rough and shiveringly possessive. "No, I'm not going to leave you for DeMarco Murray or anyone else. You're stuck with me."

"Not stuck," Chris argues and if his return kiss is a little messy and a whole lot desperate, Sam's way too nice of a person to say anything about it.

"You need a shower," Sam says, when they part. "You reek like cheap alcohol and stale bread and your dog."

"Why am I showering?" Everyone knows a good sulk requires not bathing. It's like rule number one in the books.

"Because we're going out to dinner with your parents and then we're coming back here and spending the rest of the night having super clingy we still love each other and we're making the whole long-distance thing work sex."

"Oh," Chris says. "Well, when you put it like that..."

Sam gives him another kiss. "Shower, then dinner, then sex. And we'll figure out everything else as it comes."

"Okay," Chris says, and straightens, because Sam's got a point. (Sam normally has a point.) He's got a loving and supportive family and two great dogs and a job he loves and he's dating his best friend. He's got it pretty damn good. "Join me?"

"Sure," Sam smiles, and if they roll into the restaurant a little late and a little wrinkled and with damp hair and goofy grins, his parents are smart enough to understand and not mention it.


End file.
